


those who love the vastness of the sky

by coffeesuperhero



Category: Independence Day (1996)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 19:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeesuperhero/pseuds/coffeesuperhero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five minutes in the life of Major Mitchell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	those who love the vastness of the sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Trovia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trovia/gifts).



> **Disclaimers** : Spoilers for the whole movie. This isn't for profit, just for the fun and joy of Yuletide! All characters & situations belong to Roland Emmerich, Dean Devlin, 20th Century Fox and various subsidiaries. Title from the U.S. Air Force song "Wild Blue Yonder," which I also had nothing to do with.

It's 0300 on the Fourth of July. Usually at this time of day, Mitchell's finally off duty and grabbing a few necessary hours of sleep before he has to wake up and start another day, even on Independence Day, because the commanding officers of covert military installations don't really get holidays off. Today is different, though. Today, he's not sleeping. He can't. There's too much to do, too much to plan, so he's alone here in his quarters for the next five minutes, taking a moment to breathe, to worry in private so that his people don't see him sweat.

Levinson's plan may be a long shot, but Mitchell has good people out there and he trusts them, or at least, he trusts the military personnel. There's no accounting for the crazy-ass scientists that think they run this place. He mostly tries to live and let live when it comes to them, but then they go and start poking around inside the broken body of the enemy and nearly kill the President of the United States, their goddamn Commander in Chief. Whitmore may be a little more liberal with his policies than Mitchell would like, but he damn well respects the office, and so he can't bring himself to feel too guilty about Okun and his team. He doesn't like losing his people, but he's never felt like Okun really inhabited the same planet that the rest of them do, and so he's just glad the glass wasn't bulletproof, that the damage was contained. If anything, he wishes they could get rid of the enemy as easily as they got rid of that one, just one emptied clip for every goddamn alien out there, but the failed nuclear op this afternoon put a quick end to that hope.

He checks his watch: three more minutes, then it's time to get going, grab another cup of coffee and try to save the world. He's pacing his quarters, thinking of everything that might go wrong with this last-ditch op, hoping that somewhere among all those civvies are a few good men that they can put in the air. Who knows, he thinks, maybe they'll save the damn world after all. If they're still around tomorrow, he'll drink to that. There's a bottle of scotch hidden away in the bottom drawer of his desk, a gift from his old CO in honor of the promotion that put him in charge of Area 51. He remembers the look in the commander's eyes when he went to unscrew the cap and drink a toast to both of them, to the future.

"Save it, son," the CO had told him. "This ain't the time. Don't waste good scotch on a goddamn promotion, Mitchell. Make it count."

If they make it out of this, he thinks it'll count, all right.

Part of him wishes he could be up in the air with the rest of them tomorrow. The President will go, he's sure of it, so sure that he already told Peterson to round up some flight gear and a plane for the President. Whitmore hasn't seen combat since the Gulf, but he'll always be a fighter pilot, more comfortable in the air than he'll ever be on land, a feeling Mitchell knows all too well. If he's got one real regret about running this base, it's that he can't take the time or the equipment to get back into the cockpit more than the bare minimum of hours he needs to stay certified. He tries to make it memorable when he does, revelling in the cool comfort of the cockpit and the thrill of racing through a clear blue sweep of sky. The first time he ever went up, he never wanted to come down, he just wanted to stay airborne forever, the vastness of the sky stretching out in front of him like an infinite dream. Some days he can't believe he gave all of that up for this, even if it is a career job, a command of his own.

"It's a lonely life, Mitchell," his former commander had warned him. He remembers how sure he'd been when he told them that he could handle it, that he came from a long line of Mitchells who had all been dedicated to serving the United States Air Force, that this was the biggest honor of his life, that he was willing to make sacrifices, _sir, yes sir_. Mitchell saluted the board, they all shook hands, they pounded him on the back, and he headed back to Nevada with a load of responsibility and the determination to do his duty and do it well.

Mitchell's never really been all that interested in thinking about it, what he's given his life to, what he may in a few short hours be giving his life _for_ , but for these five minutes, as he thinks about all the families huddled together above ground, none of them his, all of his sacrifices and all of his mistakes won't let him rest until he gives them just a moment's thought.

It's not easy, knowing the things that he knows, doing the job that he does, and trying to act like things are situation normal when he calls his parents to tell them that he's sorry, that he won't be coming home for Christmas this year, just like last year and the year before. They're proud, he knows, if a little confused: his father served in the Air Force, just like his father before him, but none of them made a career of it, none of them had to keep secrets like he does. He hopes they're still alive, that their little ranch house is still too remote for the enemy to target. He hopes he's alive tomorrow to call them.

The one person he can't call is the one that matters most, and the ring on his finger feels heavier tonight than it ever has. She's been gone for years, just one more person in a long line of people who aren't around anymore, one more sacrifice to duty and honor and country. The day she left he was on his way to the Pentagon for the secret briefing where they let him in on the truth about little green men and told him he'd been reassigned, effective immediately. She was gone when he got back to tell her that they were moving to Nevada, and every day since he's tried to take the ring off, but the same sense of duty that keeps him on his feet at 0100 and then pulls him out of his bunk at 0500 keeps that ring on his finger. He made a promise, and she may be long gone, but he's still keeping it, as much as the job allows.

It's too late for apologies, not that he's ever been good at giving them. It should be strange, that he can work his way up to the command of a secret military base in half the time it's taken most of his colleagues to hit the board at Randolph even once, but he's never been able to pick up the damn phone and say, "Hey, it's me. I know I screwed things up. I'm sorry."

The hard truth is that he's not sorry, at least, not sorry enough to think that if he had it all to do over again, he'd do it differently. He wouldn't, and maybe it's just what he needs to believe so he can still sleep at night, but what he does, this job, it's important, it _matters_ , and if it keeps him from home, from family, it's worth it. If he ever had any doubts that this was exactly what he was supposed to be doing, they were gone the second he first took flight, when he felt that first fierce rush of joy as he watched the ground fall away from his plane. Nothing else in his life has come close to the thrill of that moment.

His watch beeps at him, and he stops pacing. There's no more time for fear, for regret, for reflection. It's time to fly, fight and win. "Off we go," he mutters, and hits the light on his way out the door.


End file.
